Wind Without

Art, Poetry


There is a wind blowing outside,
Whipping the treetops to a frenzy of motion.
In the background, the kettle whistles,
Gently boiling,
Oblivious to the storm.
All actions seem empty
as I sit with myself,
toying with vagrant ideas.
My own company has become,
But there are no angels here
to fill the void.
I have spring cleaned my soul,
casting the debris from my mind.
But now I realise
that sometimes a cherished illusion,
is far nicer
than a bleak truth.
The wind is blowing
and the becalmed ocean within me
Is jealous.

Words by Umbra


Umbra’s Angel, 1998

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